below below
by possibilist
Summary: "Three weeks before Quinn's final year at Yale is about to start, and Santana gets a text with about fifty pouting emoticons followed by I have the flu from Quinn, she starts to laugh." Quinn has the flu. Santana comes to New Haven to take care of her. Fluff, a little angst, mentions of Faberry, loopy & sleepy Quinn ensue.


****[because i have the flu and i promised to cheer you all up a bit with my quinn. i think i'm feeling better.]

**...**

**below below**

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_but the blue-and-amber backs had matched the world they lived in for one terrifying moment. and the violent orange they changed to was beautiful only because we'd memorized the other color, knew what they had been._

—Brenda Hillman, _Loose Sugar_

_..._

The flu knocks Quinn on her ass. This alone amuses Santana, because in theory it really shouldn't—Quinn has been through surgeries, lung infections, physical therapy. Those things, though, worry Santana: swollen purple scars, those stitches, small craters from IVs in the tops of Quinn's hands.

But three weeks before Quinn's final year at Yale is about to start, and Santana gets a text with about fifty pouting emoticons followed by _I have the flu_ from Quinn, she starts to laugh.

Quinn relays a couple of more fever-clouded texts: _I went to the market this morning and bought a bunch of eggplant but I didn't need that much and also I forgot to get cream cheese for my bagels; I love you so much and I'm glad I haven't died yet like I mean it that's a cool thing; There are eskimo pies in my freezer and I'm not sure how they got there?_

Once Santana gets off of work, she packs an overnight bag and types, _I'll come take care of you_, because Quinn is amusing but Santana worries a bit—the residual on the insides of her eyelids she can't cry out—and she has the week off from her barista job in New York; Rachel is on vacation with her fathers, and most of Quinn's good friends from school haven't gotten back to New Haven yet.

_You don't need to_, Quinn texts back.

Santana validates her choice by citing that Quinn is an amusing idiot with a fever and meds, as well as that Santana doesn't really trust anyone else to take care of Quinn as well—she types, _Don't worry about it, bitch_ without shred of remorse.

Before she gets on the train to New Haven, she goes to CVS and picks up a bottle of NyQuil and a box of jasmine tea.

...

Santana hears shuffling before Quinn opens the door to her apartment. Santana doesn't want to admit it, but for as wonderful as Quinn's three years at Yale have been, they've also taken their toll—Quinn is thinner than normal; Quinn is exhausted. It's not only the flu, although being sick accentuates the circles under her eyes and how her cheekbones press up against her skin. It doesn't surprise Santana that Quinn's hair is tucked up inside a gray knit beret, that she's wearing an oversized grey Yale sweatshirt one and cotton boyshorts with blue snowflakes on them.

"Looking good, Lucy Q," Santana says, and moves to pull Quinn into a hug.

Quinn steps back quickly, waves a hand around.

"Fine."

"I don't want to get you sick."

"I'm staying at your apartment. Plus my immune system is a fucking SWAT team."

Quinn laughs.

"Unlike yours, apparently." Santana starts walking towards Quinn's bedroom to put her bag down as Quinn curls up on her couch. Quinn's place is adorable and WASPy and strewn with books at all times, especially now that Quinn is getting ready for thesis work, which Santana actually pays attention to sometimes but doesn't ever let on. Quinn's little apartment is comprised of hardwood floors and no closet space, but it has a lot of windows and granite countertops in the kitchen, which Santana knows is why Quinn leased it. Santana puts her bag down on the not-Quinn-side of the bed and makes her way back into the open living room and kitchen.

"It's so hot," Quinn whines from the couch.

Santana rolls her eyes for good measure and sits near Quinn's feet, picking them up and putting them over her lap. "Your feet are cold."

"My feet are always cold," Quinn mumbles.

"True." Santana scoots over. "Open up," she instructs, putting the thermometer she brought under Quinn's tongue.

Quinn hums a little while she waits, although she sort of rolls around a little bit. Santana rubs her stomach and when the thermometer beeps, she takes it out.

"101," she reads. "Not bad, Fabray. I guess I'll stick around then."

Quinn doesn't respond, just tugs her knees to her chest and cuddles her stuffed lamb closer.

"Hey," Santana says, and Quinn buries her face in a throw pillow. Santana wants to laugh because only with the flu does Quinn turn into a petulant small child, but it's a little pathetic. "I'm going to go change into comfy stuff and then I'll bring you medicine and—have you eaten?"

"I vomited it back up," Quinn says.

"How about some gingerale then?"

"I have Perrier."

Santana laughs. "Of course you do."

...

Santana can tell Quinn is fighting sleep. They're watching Netflix reruns of _The Office _on Quinn's MacBook, Quinn's head in Santana's lap. Santana is in sweatpants and one of Quinn's t-shirts, this ridiculous thing with a bulldog on it. Quinn has managed to keep down two pieces of toast. Her breathing is slowing; her head leaning just a little more heavily. Quinn has developed a weird tolerance to medications, but so far the NyQuil seems to be working, because she's nodding off and she's not complaining to Santana about anything.

"I need to do some thesis work," she slurs into Santana's thigh.

"Your semester hasn't even started yet."

"But I—"

"Quinn," Santana says. "Go to sleep, okay? You have time."

Quinn nods minutely and Santana rubs up and down her sharp spine.

...

Santana watches Netflix and doses off a little, and they spend the afternoon together just napping. Quinn tosses and turns a bit, and she's sweaty, so Santana knows her fever hasn't broken yet. Santana sneaks out from underneath Quinn's head when she's hungry for dinner. Rummaging around in Quinn's ridiculously foodie, organic fridge—there's goat cheese and tofu and fresh spinach and summer squash and nectarines—she manages to find eggs. She fries two for herself and pours a glass of mango juice—one of Quinn's expensive tastes she agrees with, at least—and eats at the small table in the corner of the kitchen, lace tablecloth and all. She skims over the _Times _sitting there but gets bored and checks her phone instead, updating Rachel on everything.

Santana's not entirely sure, but she thinks Quinn is taking a break from dating anyone at the moment. Yale's been busy for Quinn, full of opportunities and wonderful moments, but it's also been loaded with pressure and change that Quinn hadn't always been able to handle well. Not that Rachel had been able to handle the pressure at NYADA spectacularly either—but they're still really close. They split up at the beginning of the summer before junior year and Quinn had seriously dated one other girl since then, but they broke up when she'd gone away to Europe for the summer.

But Rachel and Quinn are still really, really close, Santana knows, close enough so that Rachel would be taking care of Quinn if she could, Santana's sure. And Quinn is young, and Rachel is young, although Quinn seems like such an old soul sometimes—so worn, so bruised, so tired.

The summer and the past semester had been trying, draining—for Quinn, for her friends. But Santana knows Quinn's gotten stabilized with her therapist over the past couple of weeks, and things seem to be getting better—really, coherently better.

Rachel texts back her thanks for Santana's update, and Santana puts her plate in the sink, going back over to the couch. Quinn lifts her head groggily and Santana kisses her cheek. It's late enough for Quinn to go to bed, so Santana helps her up and they make their way into Quinn's bedroom.

Santana pulls back the fluffy white duvet and Quinn flops in. Santana walks around to the other side and, although she isn't really tired enough to sleep yet, climbs in and spoons Quinn, putting her arm over Quinn's waist. Quinn laces their fingers and tugs their hands to her chest.

"Thanks, San," she says.

...

Quinn throws up twice during the night, and it's not that difficult to take care of her because she seems to tired to be combative at this point.

When Santana wakes up at around 8 am, the sheets are soaked with sweat and Quinn is still curled up a little, but after Quinn's second time throwing up Santana had helped her into a t-shirt, which is bunched up around Quinn's waist. Santana traces the scar down Quinn's back and her skin is noticeably cooler than yesterday; Santana gets up and makes coffee in Quinn's French press, toasts two bagels and spreads what little cream cheese Quinn has left on one, adds sliced tomatoes and cucumbers. She spreads butter over the other one, adds some raspberry preserves.

She goes back into Quinn's bedroom and brushes Quinn's hair off her forehead; it's short and a little tangled from sleep.

"Hey," Santana says. "Breakfast?"

"I feel like I got run over by a truck," Quinn says, rolling over.

"That joke has really gotten old."

"It's still good and you know it."

Santana laughs a little. "Did your fever break?"

"I think so." Quinn snuggles back into the bed.

Santana waits a few minutes, comfortably scratching Quinn's back lightly, before she says, "I know you've not been eating enough."

"I'm working with a nutritionist," Quinn says, struggling to sit up, rubbing her eyes. "It's just hard. And I'm busy."

Santana smiles and leans forward to kiss Quinn's forehead. "I know. And I'm glad you're working with someone. Also, I made you a bagel, so you're taken care of for breakfast at least."

Quinn smiles. "Cream cheese and cucumber and tomato?"

"Don't you think eight years has taught me anything? As if I'd make it any other way. Fucking WASP."

Quinn groans when she gets out of bed, and there are lots of pops from her back, but she pulls on a big knit cardigan and follows Santana—messy, sleepy, so young—into the kitchen for breakfast.

...

"Rachel was worried," Santana mentions while they're watching _The X Files _and Quinn is exhaustedly trying to stay awake. Santana had made sure she'd taken another dose of NyQuil so Quinn would be sure to have an easy day to recuperate.

"Yeah?"

"Mmhmm."

"I'm not ready to be with someone, you know. Even if by some miracle you're trying to push me towards Rachel."

Santana laughs. "As much as it pains me to say it, I think when you're both ready, you'd probably be good for each other."

Quinn nods. "I need to get better. To be good. I've not been good, like, ever."

"You're good, Quinn."

"I mean, to myself. I need to be good to myself. And like, get a big gigantic scholarship so I can travel before doing this—" she gestures around, and Santana gathers her general meaning as _books_—"for another five to ten years."

Santana smiles. "You're a legit genius and it took you a solid twenty-one years to come to this conclusion?"

"I had a tough childhood, you ass," Quinn says, laughing and slapping Santana's arm playfully.

"I'm proud of you, duh," Santana concedes.

Quinn takes a dramatic bow. "Oh, thank you, thank you."

"Yale's taught you a lot, apparently," Santana says.

"Apparently."

...

They spend the day easily talking and watching movies. Santana takes a shower while Quinn's napping in the morning, and it's always fascinating to her to smell everything that comprises Quinn—the coconut shampoo, lavender bar soap, vanilla lotion. It's one of Santana's favorite things, the way Quinn smells, although she'd never admit it.

It's cloudy outside, and in the afternoon it starts to rain. Quinn leans her head on Santana's shoulder and pokes Santana in the side. "I would pay you a gazillion dollars if you walked to Claire's and got me a German chocolate cupcake."

"They have the _worst _coffee I've ever tasted. Good lord, Quinn."

"Hence why I asked for a cupcake, not coffee."

Santana pokes Quinn's leg. "Ass. I want coffee."

"I know. But Claire's has the best cupcakes."

"You're a bitch."

"I have the flu," Quinn whines.

Santana gets up with a sigh. "You _had _the flu. You want a cupcake."

Quinn pouts.

"Walk with me to JoJo's? You could use the fresh air."

Quinn bites her bottom lip for a few seconds. "You pay," she says.

She pulls on a pair of leggings and old paint-splattered TOMS and Santana smiles. In three years away from home Quinn has become substantially sadder, but also substantially happier, and most importantly she seems to be growing more comfortable in her own skin. She's less worried—there are fewer WASPy sundresses, and from what Santana was able to see last night, no new cuts or bruises of any sort, which almost makes Santana want to cry.

Santana isn't a writer or an academic like Quinn, but she knows that sometimes that's good for people like her—Santana is there to remind Quinn that she is a being, a human, and not any other beautiful, tragic thing. She's a mess and exact mixture of cells, bones blood the pop the blue the magic pump—there is nothing below her existence as self, nothing to be unturned. Santana doesn't know how to explain it quite to Quinn, that she is just a person but also that it's the most remarkable thing—no one has fought harder to stay alive than Quinn has—so instead she pulls Quinn into a quick hug instead.

"I'm glad you're feeling better," she says, and it jolts her chest a bit to mean it so much.

Quinn loops her arms through Santana's offered one, kissing her cheek after she locks the door.


End file.
